


Mind and Mirror

by Teanjel



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Pre-Canon, Teacher-Student Relationship, depending on your vessel theories, more tags later probably, possibly canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teanjel/pseuds/Teanjel
Summary: "It is a construct, Quirrel, essential to the king's plan. Not a child. Remember that."





	1. Tram Pass

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes. I've got so many pages of notes for this thing...  
> Thank you to FollowerofMercy for beta reading this for me, and generally being very encouraging in my fanfic writing endeavors.

_No cost too great._

_No mind to think._

_No will to break._

_No voice to cry suffering._

_Born of God and Void._

_You shall seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams._

_You are the Vessel._

_You are the Hollow Knight._

 

** Someone there? A face? **

** Look back. **

** Do not. **

** A door sealed.  **

** Regret and horror locked in darkness.  **

** Forget.  **

** No, there will be no forgetting, for there is nothing to remember.  **

** No memories of siblings broken, brother sealed.  **

** Memories...what is memory?  **

** Not for you, mindless one.  **

** Nothing to one born of void.  **

** Do not remember.  **

** Do not forget.  **

** You are empty.  **

** You are empty, hollow knight.  **

** Pure vessel, only of your kind, for the others never mattered.  **

** Thoughtless, mindless, void-born.  **

** What soul you have is mere shell.  **

** Grow in strength but not in will.  **

** Creature of abyss, rest in darkness, till you shall consume the light.  **

 

 

* * *

 

 

Quirrel sat in the light of drifting jellyfish, bending over the bundle of mail he’d collected just after breakfast. A short stack of letters, and another empty summer afternoon. The uomas in his study bobbed around him curiously, shifting color and shadowing the walls as if the room was flooded with water. He might have found a lantern to bring with him to his desk for a steadier light, but Quirrel liked company of the uomas.

They were not intelligent beings, of course, like Monomon and Uumuu, but spend enough time watching them, and it was easy to forget. The Archive uomas no longer avoided him as most of the wild ones in the canyon did, and he usually opened his door in the morning to find two or three drifting in front as if waiting for him.  Sometimes when he was bent over some work and holding very still, one of them would slowly float its way to rest just above his shoulder, only to dart away as soon as Quirrel moved.

The first of the letters was addressed to Monomon, and he carefully set it aside before it disappeared in the disordered pile covering the desk. Archive paperwork had its own drawer, but Quirrel’s personal notes, research, and copies of particularly interesting student papers he hadn’t wanted to part with he usually tossed on the desk to put away later, and inevitably didn’t. Somehow, even with so much time on his hands lately, it never seemed to stay organized for long. He knew for a fact there were at least three new quills he hadn’t seen for a week, and a cookie recipe a student had sent him he kept meaning to try. A few odd lumps indicated stone tablets he still hadn’t found a shelf for.

He skimmed several letters addressed to the archive in general. As expected, they asked the same questions with varying tones of anger or worry. If it was true that Monomon herself heard the voice of the old light. If the archive was closing to students. Yes, it was true. No, the archive would not close.

Monomon had always treated her own infection as something inevitable. Teacher of Hallownest, preserver of knowledge, cultivator of young minds. Friend to the King. Of course the light would come for her. It was only a matter of time. She had taken precautions when she established the Archive. Quirrel’s first day there had been his introduction to the rumored Plague. It was worse than the general public realized, Monomon had confided, not merely a sickness that killed but one that twisted minds, caused the worst cases to attack their friends and caretakers. A disease that seemed to have a mind itself.

And so Quirrel had grown used to carrying a nail infused with a spell that could break the electric protection of Uumuu or Monomon, should the need arise. Well, he’d grown used to it now that it had stopped unexpectedly flashing like a startled lumafly. Monomon understood magic and seals and could name every species in Hallownest, but weapon design was outside of her expertise. Quirrel had attempted to find the solution for the instability himself, but, in the end, it had taken several trips to the nailsmith to seal magic and metal in a comfortable whole.

It was nearly a year now since Monomon had quietly told them the time had come. That she had left the Court under her own suspicion that the will of the Plague in her mind – the ‘radiance’ – could hear as well as speak. Whatever solution the King had planned against Infection, she would have no further part in it. As for Quirrel, he was not summoned to the Palace in her place, and he did not inquire.  

As Quirrel reached for a pen he _could_ see, something heavy slipped from between papers of his desk and fell to the floor with a clatter. He really needed another shelf in here; stone tablets and papers did not mix well. Quirrel bent to find it under the chair. No, it wasn’t a tablet. A tram pass. _His_ tram pass. Wyrm, he was supposed to return that. How many days ago now? No, it was a week at least, wasn't it? Quirrel stared at the delicately carved piece of wood, feeling stupid. How had he missed it? He’d returned Lurien’s geo, but not the token that had required the _King’s_ signature?

He should take it to the city today. Now. How late was it already? He would need time to walk back with how busy the Stagways were. There had been a line waiting by the bell this morning, and the stag who had dropped off the bundle of the Archive’s mail had been uncharacteristically clumsy and irritable. Quirrel grabbed his nail and the pass and rushed out the door. The Archive halls he passed through were empty, save for Uomas. Monomon and Uumuu must be in one of the lower rooms, likely busy until the evening meal. He’d probably be back before they noticed he was gone.

 

Queen’s station was still busy, but Quirrel slipped through the crowd to a door in a quiet corner on the lower floor. He slipped his pass into the slot next to it and caught it again as the door slid open. The Queen’s Station tram was smaller than most, with only a few seats, really only suitable for husks avoiding a bumpy stag ride to the City of Tears. Despite the bustle of the rest of Queen’s station, the small car was empty today. Quirrel rested his nail on his knees so he could sit comfortably and pressed the glowing button. The car slid into motion, gathering speed as it slipped downhill through its narrow tunnel. A few minutes later the track leveled out and the car shot into an open cavern lit by a lake of shimmering green acid. Quirrel leaned against the tram window, enjoying the view while he still could.

The tram followed the mottled fungal wall for a while, curving with the natural shape of the cavern. Then, as it neared the city it turned to slip across the water on a narrow metal bridge glimmering in the light of the acid below. The splashes probably kept it free of tarnish; this line was the oldest, a prototype built before it was decided larger cars would be more practical. Quirrel could remember watching the work crews building it when he was a young bug running errands for the nailsmith. He’d used the track as a shortcut to the fungal wastes for a few weeks, jumping between bridge slats, until an oncoming tram had forced him to make a hasty dive into the acid below. His shell was thicker than most husks, but it had still stung.

Quirrel caught a glimpse of the main entrance to the city as the tram sped past, along with the ever-present line of bugs waiting to show paperwork. As the owner of a tram pass, Quirrel could skip the line. He was trusted.

While Monomon did her best to continue the archive as she always had, accepting students with no discussion of the Infection, the City of Tears was kept free of the Plague. No bug afflicted with the disease was permitted in its bounds. It sounded cruel on paper, but, as far as Quirrel knew, was seldom necessary. The infected tended to wander off on their own, and rarely sought out the city. It was mostly to reassure the citizens that they had little chance of catching it.

 

The City of Tears felt quieter than Quirrel had remembered. Underneath the steady rainfall, few spoke in the halls. The long bridge between towers was nearly empty. A single husk dandy scurried past him, muttering, and a pair of guards whispering to each other grew silent as he drew near. Perhaps it was simply the time of day?

He had been to Lurien's tower once before, to pick up the pass, but Quirrel had not met Lurien himself. The Watcher had been at the Palace on some business with the King, and had simply left instructions and the valuable pass. Quirrel would’ve returned with the final paperwork the next week to meet his pupil. But that, of course, had never happened. It would be awkward to finally meet Lurien now, especially when the pass was already so late. If he could slip in and leave it with some guard or servant, that would be simplest.

A tired secretary looked up from behind a desk at the base of the tower. Had he met her before? Quirrel couldn’t remember. Even if she was vaguely familiar, he had spent his childhood in the city. Plenty of bugs he barely recognized still remembered him as the nailsmith’s former apprentice.

He approached, holding out the tram pass. “I’m here to—”

“See Lurien? Well, go on, then.”

“I—”

She gestured curtly at the door behind her. “Not my business. Bring it up with the Watcher.”

He left her muttering at the papers on her desk and continued further into the tower. That was – odd. Wasn’t answering his questions _exactly_ her business? But she’d seemed so flustered, and he hadn’t wanted to be a bother. Maybe she wasn’t the regular secretary, only standing in temporarily, and tired of being expected to know everything.

He reached the elevator to the top of the tower. The hall was still empty. He hadn't intended to come this far at all, really. He could wait for someone to approach him. Or return to the secretary downstairs and ask for more information. But Quirrel was impatient to complete his task and begin his walk back to the archive. And now that he’d come so far, he might as well continue. He stepped into the elevator and pulled the lever.

One of the Watcher's Knights stopped him on the second floor. Quirrel began to mutter something about a package for Lurien, and the knight gruffly waved him on. "Next floor. They've already started." Quirrel was back on the elevator listening to the chain rattle above his head before he fully registered what the knight had said. This was a meeting he wasn't invited to. He'd been mistaken for someone else. Probably by the secretary, too. Well, at least he knew where Lurien was now. He’d just explain the mistake, turn in the tram pass, and be on his way. He stepped out of the elevator into a quiet hall draped in blue and purple. A light shone from beneath a door on the far end and he crossed to it. Before he had a chance to put his hand on the knob, urgent voices sounded from the other side.

“’An if she would attempt such again, Le’mer?”

“We will keep guard until the king– ”

Quirrel stumbled backward, away from the door. That sounded like a conversation he shouldn’t be overhearing. He glanced at other doors around him. Closed and dark.

“Secret or not, it will not be safe outside the palace!”

Startled by the shout, Quirrel pulled the nearest door open and darted through it. The knob was metal and surprisingly hard to turn, but at least it was unlocked and didn’t squeak. The nail at his side let out a brief flash of light as the tip bumped into the doorframe. _Bother._ It wasn’t supposed to do that anymore, not since he’d had that that crack sealed at the beginning of the summer.

Quirrel turned the room he’d entered. A small sitting room, with several chairs and a shelf of tablets. The windows were darkened with heavy curtains, and the only light came from a large white globe on a table in the center.

He approached the object curiously. It was bigger than most lanterns, and didn’t seem to contain lumaflies. White wisps swirled within like silent storm clouds. Quirrel carefully reached a hand towards it, cautious of electrical charge. The substance within gathered to the edge of the vessel when his hand drew near, but he felt no heat. Quirrel pressed a fingertip against the glass. The light flared to a brilliant glow at the touch, but the glass was cool. Perhaps a less dangerous alternative to charged lumaflies? He should remember to ask. Monomon would be interested in a safer energy source for the Archive.

Meanwhile, he would just have to wait for Lurien’s meeting to finish. He picked a chair that was his size, near the window, and sat down to listen to the rain. It was a moment before his eye caught a faint movement in the opposite corner of the room. Something silent and ghostly white.

No, it was a small bug with a white head, a child probably, crouching in the shadows. Oh dear. This room wasn’t empty, after all. Well he’d certainly made a fool of himself today.

“Hello there,” Quirrel offered.

The child made no response. He was nodding his head slowly, as if on the brink of falling asleep. It was that movement that had caught Quirrel’s eye, now he saw a web of cracks in the white head. He looked…hurt.

Quirrel rushed to him. “Are you well?”

The child looked up weakly with dark, empty eyes. Quirrel had hoped for a brief moment that the cracked face was only a mask. But no, a dark liquid was quietly leaking out of the gaps. His right arm drooped out of his cloak at a strange angle, and looking closer Quirrel could see the carapace of the shoulder was cracked and bleeding, too. How had…? It was a wonder the child was still standing. He must be in too much pain to make a sound. Quirrel realized he was shaking.   _Calm down. Calm down and then calm the child down and then find help._ He put a hand on the tiny shoulder.

“My name’s Quirrel. You’re – you’re going to be all right.”

 _Oh, Monomon was so much better at this._ Quirrel knew what to do with older students, he could teach fencing and arithmetic lessons all day, but the little ones…

The child stopped shaking and met his gaze. Quirrel tried to look reassuring while rapidly thinking through his options. Perhaps he shouldn't be moved with those injuries, but Quirrel couldn’t just leave him. He looked small enough to carry. That was what he would do. He would carry him back to the door, interrupt the meeting – _that_ was going to make things complicated, but it was the closest place to go.

The child dropped his head and looked at the floor, suddenly still. Quirrel reached out his other hand instinctively, ready to catch him if he fell, and froze. The cracks on the top of the head were fading, sealing themselves. The jagged lines slipped into nothing like draining water, leaving only smudges of leaked fluid. The arm, too, straightened back into place as the child stood. He tilted his head sideways, staring at Quirrel. Then beyond Quirrel, behind him, and Quirrel realized they weren’t alone anymore.

“Turn yourself slowly, Le’mer, and step away from the Vessel.” The voice was soft, but uncompromising.

He turned to stare down the blade of a greatnail longer than he was tall. A figure cloaked in grey stood behind it, waiting silently for him to obey. He raised his arms and stepped sideways, vaguely registering that this must be Ze’mer, one of the King’s great knights. And one of the voices he’d heard behind the sealed door.

“It is a secret, dangerous thing you have found. Che’ will not hesitate to use this nail.”

Quirrel nodded and took another step away from…Vessel? Wyrm, what had he stumbled into? He – he hadn’t even mentioned to Monomon where he was going, she would be starting to wonder already, and now…

“Che’ would know first your name, and how it is that you passed through the seals of protection laid upon the door to this room.”


	2. The Vessel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Vessel remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter took forever. But I guess it's posting on the anniversary now?  
> Was too impatient to ask someone to beta-read, so I'd especially welcome mentions of typos or other confusion.

_VOID, yours is the power opposed._  
_But yours is potential, eternity potential, force that could deny Time._  
_VOID, harness shall be placed upon you._

 

It was called Vessel. It was called Hollow Knight. It did not know much more about itself, but it did not need to. It had been led by the king to a court of sharp columns and white roots, a world of whispers and soft shadows. It did not eat. It did not sleep. It walked behind the king and mirrored his movements and steady posture. It waited for instruction and did not think.

A great deal of time must have passed, but it was not meant to remember, and so it did not. It kept its calling, and its names. And there was something else, wasn't there? Something that must not be remembered, so it did not try. Colors and characters grew familiar by repetition. The great lady with pale eyes who loved the king. A soft flutter of white wings, scattering maskflies. The tall suits of armor with sharp crowns and empty faces that paced the halls with curved weapons. Warriors, too, who were not silent, who whispered and laughed and did not linger in rooms where the Vessel waited.

The Vessel was empty, but emptiness does not exist easily. Empty things will be filled. It saw a white palace and a thousand details of beauty imagined by pale minds. It heard stately conversations and the tired words of a worried monarch. It soaked up the world like a sponge. It could not help itself, for that was its nature. And so it absorbed, but did not keep. Memory grew in its mind and fell out. It knew its king. It knew its name. It was enough.

For countless days of forgotten time, it remained enough. Experience. Observe. Forget. Follow. Await. The pattern itself was a reassuring constant. A song of soft notes fading to nothing. But stasis chafes against the turning world as much as perfect emptiness. For all the order of the king's perfect palace, the vibrancy of life - variety, beauty, surprise -pressed against the Hollow Knight's mind. 

 

It was a day like any other unremembered day. The Vessel was waiting by itself, as it had been told. It spent much of its existence waiting without any particular command, but it  did not mark the passage of time. It never remembered how long it had been waiting. But this day, its wait was broken by something entirely new.

A color, first.

A flash of pale red rippling in the fabric of a cloak. A figure swinging and leaping between balconies, no larger than the Vessel itself, skipping boldly across the tops of railings. She might have run past, simply another observation to be forgotten. But she swerved suddenly to stop in front of the Hollow Knight, and look directly into its face with eyes as dark as the king’s.

“Hello. You’re the Vessel, aren’t you?”

She took the hand lying limp at the Vessel's side and swung it quickly in her own.

"My name's Hornet. We're siblings, I think."

It stared down at the two hands clasped together, surprised for the first time in its limited memory. It had retained as little information about its own appearance as anything else. It was like Hornet. The hands matched. It _had_ hands. It had never used them.

"That means," Hornet continued, "I'm your sister. What's your name? Do you have a name yet?"

**Hollow Knight.** It could not speak the words. This, too, was curious. It had never tried to speak words of its own before. It had never been asked.

"Hornet! Who told you such things?"

The Vessel had heard the voice before, but it was not the king's voice, so it did not know anything else about it. Hornet, **sister,** glanced at the Vessel's face, then dropped the hand she held and darted away after the voice.

 **Sibling...** A new name for itself. A name that also belonged to Hornet. They were the same kind, had the same hands.  **Vessel. Hollow Knight. Sibling.** The first two had a kind of power that made it feel stronger, but 'sibling' had a different flavor. It was new.

It was called Vessel, and its purpose was to forget. It savored sound and color and sensation and then it forgot them all.

But Hornet it decided to remember. She shared a name. She seemed important.

And so the Vessel kept the memory of Hornet and the strange name, and little else, until another day that was defined by a color.

 

The figure who carried blue into the palace and into the Vessel's experience had a single eye and walked slowly. Slowly, but not in distraction like the courtiers, or to smile at details of the palace like the knight whose name the Vessel had not kept. The bug draped in blue walked like he was made of something heavy.

The Vessel was waiting, again, in a room by itself, when he entered. He paused to glance at the Vessel for a long moment. Something about the moment reminded the Vessel of something else. Of someone? No, there was nothing. It had been shown to many in the court, and this was no different.

The figure turned away but did not leave.

"Sire."

“Lurien.” The king was in the doorway.

The Vessel watched Lurien’s cloak fold and fall with bended knee, a crisp swirl of blue. The king nodded for him to rise, but Lurien remained bowed as he spoke.

“Sire. Name me as seal.”

The king almost stuttered, startled. “I have not asked-”

“One mind will not be enough.” Lurien raised his head. “Can you think of another?”

They walked through the palace together, and the Vessel followed like a shadow behind them. They did not go to any room in particular but spoke at length. The Vessel listened to the pitch and pattern of their words without their meaning, but when they had circled the palace and returned to the place they had left from, the king turned around and addressed the Hollow Knight directly.

“Vessel, Lurien shall watch you. You will follow him as you have followed me.”

 

And so the Hollow Knight knew, on another day, that when Lurien beckoned it was meant to follow. It walked after Lurien beyond the doors of the palace in white. It stood behind Lurien on a slow elevator that rattled and shook. It stepped out of the dark shaft into a city full of rain and color, an endless rythm of drips and splashes. It ascended with Lurien to a suite of rooms at the top of a tower, with rain running down long windows.

It was called Vessel. It was called Hollow Knight. It was called 'Sibling of Hornet.' It had followed the king to a white court. It had followed Lurien to a spire above the city. And for a time, it remained there.

 

It was called secret, too, it soon learned.

There were seven guards who served in Lurien's tower; it knew there were seven, because Lurien told it to remember them. It was not to leave the five rooms Lurien had indicated. It was not to be seen by other guards. It was to obey Lurien and the knight in grey, flowing robes before all others, save the king.

And it was here that the Vessel began to understand the concept of Time.

 

The palace had been a place of hushed motion, of conversation and work regardless of the hour. But in the Watcher's Spire, there were times when the murmur of the city would cease. One of Lurien's attendants would put out the candles and cover the lanterns, so that darkness filled the tower. (The Vessel liked the darkness, though it did not understand why.) It waited, awake, through these hours, for it had no need to sleep. Instead the Vessel remained in a windowed hall just beyond Lurien’s door, under the care of a single flying guard, standing in silence below her winged silhouette until it was called again.

Or, perhaps, not as it always had. For here was the tap-tap-tapping of rain on a windowsill, and a web of merging drips on glass. It could watch as it waited. It could listen without memory, so that every day the sound was both new and expected. Water on windows became as instinctively familiar as whispering seals and white roots.

 

Once, deep into the hours of quiet, Lurien joined them. He spoke no words to either, but remained for a time, his eye searching beyond the towers of the city to the darkness beyond. He left as suddenly as he had appeared, not to return to his rooms, but to continue down the corridor.

“He’s always been like that,” the guard remarked when he was out of earshot. (She spoke to the Vessel often when they were alone, not that the Vessel remembered most of her words.) “Paces the corridors nights, naps after lunch. More frequently since…” She cleared her throat. “You learn pretty quickly to tell his footsteps from others, watching here. We’ve all tried to report Lurien trespassing in his own house at least once.”

 

On another night, Lurien motioned to the Vessel to follow him, continuing his usual path without looking back, as if he had forgotten what he had so abruptly commanded. The Vessel, of course, followed his aimless walk across all the corridors of the tower it knew, until they arrived at last in an upper room. It was the peak of the spire, perhaps, where a crooked telescope bent through the window like a tree-branch. The rain was louder here, with the open gap in the glass. Lurien stood beside the device, watching the rain as if he, like the Vessel, waited for some new command. After a time, he spoke, in a voice barely audible above the rain-sound. It must have been to the Vessel, for there was no one else to hear.

But he finished with "Pay my words no mind, Vessel. The grief is not yours.”

And so the Vessel did not remember. It had not understood most of the words Lurien had said, anyway.

 

A third night brought many voices, an urgent conversation behind Lurien’s door, long into hours usually silent. Then Lurien himself slipped out into the hall to speak with the guard hovering beside the Vessel. And to the Vessel he said, "Stay with this guard. Obey her commands. Do not leave this room, until I have returned."

Lurien left them again, and the conversation behind the door resumed. Other voices joined it, and hasty footsteps sounded in distant halls, but the lone guard and her charge remained alone. The tower grew silent again. Lurien did not return. 

 

The winged guard, who had been pacing the carpet, slowed to move to the window beside the Vessel. With the Vessel she watched Lurien and a small group of others cross a covered bridge far below to enter another tower. 

The Vessel did not remember this guard's usual habits. Or, at least, it had not meant to remember. It did not watch her with a mind to remember anything she did. But there was something about her that was like the rain running down the windows, a steady descent the Vessel felt more than observed. It did not exactly remember that her feet had never touched the ground on the first night it had seen her. It did not understand the way she now only flew in the presence of others as worrisome, or even new. And on this night, when she sat beside him at the window to watch Lurien depart, it accepted the sudden gesture as a part of her natural state. The white roots of the palace grew and shifted, rain fell on the city from the darkness above, a guard grew tired and folded her wings. In a way, a steady change is like no change at all. Like the Vessel's own growth, constant and unconscious.

"Some...some guard I am tonight." 

Her, voice like her movement, was slower on this night than others. That alone would have been unsurprising, a continuation of the pattern. But something in the tone was different this night. The chuckle afterward was new, too.

"Wouldn't it be terrible if I fell asleep. Just sat here and never got up?" She shook her head. "That's a joke. I don't... I'm not drunk. I'm just..." Her voice faded and she leaned against the window. The cold of the glass seemed to startle her, and she sat up again. "I'm just...just..." She coughed. "...not feeling well. You should go tell... No. No, you can't. I'd better." 

She staggered to her feet, leaning into her spear. A few swaying steps past the Vessel she bent over, coughing again into her hand. She was still for a moment, staring at her hand, then sank to the floor mumbling. They were half-words at first, and snatches at sentences, speech like a drowning bug’s attempt at swimming. “ _Wyrm_ …no…not like…not when…can’t”

She took a shuddering breath and turned back to the Vessel. "It's the... Coming fast. Get out of here. Go on."

The Vessel stared at her. It was hard to tell if it was being commanded, or meant to listen and forget, as in so many other conversations. If this was a command, it did not understand how to obey. Get out of what? Go where? The guard slid towards it, reached a hand towards its shoulder, and shoved the Vessel, hard. It nearly lost its balance and stumbled backwards. Was that right? Or should it have let itself fall? It stared at the guard, waiting for clarification.  

She glared back at it. “Go. To. Lurien.”

That wasn't right. Lurien had said to wait. But Lurien had said to listen to her.

“If you stay here, I will _kill_ you.”

The Vessel continued to stare. The guard struck the floor with her fist and gave choked yell, but there was no one to hear her. No one but the Vessel, who could not interpret shouts or threats. It knew it must obey Lurien. Lurien had told it to stay.

“If you won’t…then…if…can just.” The guard wobbled to her feet again, and found her spear. “Stay here.”

She turned her back on the Vessel and started down the corridor, pressing a hand to the window and leaning on her spear as if she were dizzy, or blind. Before she’d reached the door she collapsed next to her spear. The Vessel remained in its place as she had commanded, watching the rain run down the glass.

The Vessel was still standing in the same place when the guard rose to her feet and screamed. It was not a very loud sound. Her body had been tired, and she had been dreaming for less than an hour. It might have been a cry of pain. It might have been a warning. It did not matter. The Vessel did not understand either. It did not understand when the spear flew out of her hand that it was in danger.

The mask cracked. Sound blurred. Vision flickered.

**Pain.**

It did not understand. It was afraid. **It should not be afraid. It should not feel. It should not-**

The spear had bounced from the carefully crafted mask of the Vessel. The guard was bending to retrieve it. She was fluttering just above the floor now, eyes glistening orange. There was… something else there. Something angry. **Light.** She raised the spear and rushed forward.

Did she stumble? Did the Hollow Knight flinch?

She missed the fatal blow.

The spear point broke the carapace of the Vessel’s shoulder. The glass behind shattered, letting in the bright clatter of rain and a breath of cold cavern air. An armored body crashed into cobblestones. Someone screamed. But the Vessel was barely conscious of these. Its world was stained black. The pain made it lightheaded. **Ready to leave. Float away. Return.**

** No. Do not remember. Wait. **

 

Lurien returned. Reached for the wound and stopped. Others. The knight in grey. A bug with a wide red collar. The sound of breaking glass. A flash of white, whispering like a seal.

The Vessel absorbed the energy without thought or effort.

“Focus.”

** Focus. **

“Focus!”

It did not understand.

It had been weak.

It was not supposed to be weak.

Had it failed?

 

It was carried to a dark room and left in a corner. It waited, shaking, dripping darkness, for a command it could understand.

 

 

 

 “Hello there,”

 

“Are you well?”

It looked up.

A new face. Another pair of concerned eyes. A hand reaching out.

“My name’s Quirrel. You’re – you’re going to be all right.”

It met Quirrel’s gaze.

It remembered another hand extended in friendship.

It remembered it was called **sibling.**

It remembered it had a purpose.

It stopped shaking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah I really thought this chapter would go 8x quicker than it did. But I guess that gives me an easy record to beat if I want to write the next one faster!? We'll see... (And finally get what happens to Quirrel next, heheh)
> 
> Also, this chapter probably wouldn't be the same without drawing inspiration from Nym_P_Seudo's fic _...Father?..._ which has some similar moments of the hollow knight getting into trouble by following directions very literally.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to say, I was really blown away by the response to the first chapter thank you?! It's such a strange thought to realize AO3 just sent out a bunch of email notifications to people who subscribed...


End file.
